An Affair of Poisons(16)
I haven’t a clue how to stop them, but thankfully that isn’t my responsibility. Louis can figure out how to retake his throne. My only concern is getting Anne and Fran?oise to safety and a physician.
With fingertips trailing either side of the tunnel, I race through the passageways. Two rights, four lefts, and another right. The blackness is so thick, it’s tangible—dense and scratchy like a wool blanket soaked in rat piss. I hold my breath until I reach the iron steps beneath the patisserie, where the smell of baking bread combats the stench a fraction. After rapping on the overhead hatch four times, I bounce with impatience while I wait for Madame Bissette’s ruddy face to appear. She has at least three chins and smells of yeast, but when she opens the trapdoor each night, she looks more beautiful than God’s heavenly angels, doughy cheeks all radiant and glowing in the moonlight.
“Josse, my boy, come up, come up.” She clucks and pecks around the hatch like a mother hen while I bound into the sweet shop. “Let’s have a look at you.” She brushes off my tunic and breeches. A waste of time. I haven’t anyone to impress down there, and no one gives me a passing glance up here. I look like any other street urchin.
Skirting around her, I make for the door, but she catches the tail of my tunic and pulls me back to fuss over a smudge on my cheek. I grit my teeth and count the seconds till she’s satisfied. For the girls. Think of the girls.
Madame Bissette licks her fingers and slicks back a dark strand of my hair that’s fallen from its queue. “There now, that’s better.” She straightens my collar. “If only you weren’t illegitimate. Such a handsome face and all for nothing.”
“Yes, such a pity,” I agree, straining for the doorknob.
Madame Bissette sidles her large body between me and my goal. “Can I get you something to eat? Before you go?”
I can’t steal enough cast-off vegetables from Les Halles to keep us from starving, so Madame Bissette has been selling me her day-old baked goods for the small price of another jewel. There’s also the unspoken promise that when we rise again to power, overthrow the Shadow Society, and reclaim the throne, she’ll be appointed royal pastry chef.
I grab a hunk of rye off the counter, stuff it in my mouth, and toss her a pearl as I head for the door.
“And the others?” She waddles after me. “Surely they’re hungry too?”
“I’ll purchase more when I return. To surprise Louis for breakfast.” I screw on my most dazzling smile, as if I care for frivolous things like fresh bread—or pleasing my brother—but his name is like a magic word, so I use it as often as possible.
“Oh,” she exclaims, fanning herself at the mere mention of him. “How is his Royal Highness?”
He’s trapped in the sewer. How do you think he is? I ratchet my smile a notch higher and pat her shoulder. “He’s been better, obviously, but staying optimistic. Mostly thanks to your hospitality.” I give her a wink and tip my hat. “It’s been a pleasure as always, Madame Bissette.”
“Be careful out there, Josse. This is no time to be gallivanting about. They’ve taken to the streets, readying for the procession tomorrow.”
I sweep out the door. “Thanks for the warning, ma chérie.”
Despite the late hour and pouring rain, the rue Saint-Honoré teems as if it’s midday. Everywhere I turn there are black masks and velvet capes. Shadow Society miscreants crowd the taverns and spill into the streets, and the common folk are out en masse. I had expected at least a little resistance or fear from them—the Shadow Society is murdering the courtiers and police officers, after all. But they seem delighted to see one of their own risen so high. La Voisin is something of a hero. Apparently there’s hardly a man or woman in Paris who hasn’t consulted her for some sort of remedy or tincture, upper and lower classes alike. And they’re all lining up to secure the best view of the victory procession, which will parade through the streets tomorrow afternoon.
With all eyes on the Shadow Society, it’s the perfect time to flee with my siblings. But in order to do that, I’m going to need help.
I skirt through the Place de Grève, past the pillory and old docks where grubby children try to pick my pockets. The sandy soil is so flooded, my toes damn near freeze inside my boots. It hasn’t stopped raining for weeks now. As if God is mourning the king, Louis likes to say.
He’s the only one mourning the king, I think. But my palms are sticky and my mouth feels dry, and I know I’m not being entirely honest with myself. I am mourning him too. Not a lot. Not how a child should grieve for a parent. But more than expected. And I don’t like it. I tell myself it’s only residual guilt from reading those broadsides, from his voice haunting my dreams. Or maybe a tiny part of me resents him for not teaching me how to shoulder this responsibility better.
The point is, I don’t miss him. He didn’t want to be my father, so he has no right to my pain. Rixenda is the voice inside my head. She is my true parent. Every time I close my eyes, I see her there on the road. Her gaze burning with determination and love. Giving me that final gift. Father never would have sacrificed himself for me, and the swell of crushing gratitude and guilt I feel for Rixenda relegates the king to his rightful place in my heart. I stomp his memory beneath my boots.
When I reach the Méchant Meriée, I pull my hat brim low and shoulder through the swinging doors. It smells of sour ale, soggy wool, and sweat. The gaming tables are crowded with exhausted laborers and dirty, unkempt thieves. A pair of sailors shoot to their feet, arguing, and when one of them overturns a table, I have to press myself against the wall to avoid the flying tankards. I like a rowdy hand of cards as much as the next lowborn, but this gambling den is too dodgy, even for my taste.